


However Improbable

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Abuse, Angst, Forced Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:12:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=132922233#t132922233">this prompt</a>. Sherlock is forced to become Magnussen’s lover, and Charles has a good time with him, in his own creepy way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	However Improbable

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta primalmusic!

All the guests are finally gone. The halls of Appledore are empty in their immaculate whiteness. Sherlock lingers at the large panoramic window watching the twilight slowly devouring the lawn in front of the house and the darkening hills of the Cotswolds in the distance. Perhaps that’s not what he’s seeing in his mind’s eye.

He’s still dressed in a sharp black suit, elegant as always; a present ready for unwrapping. Charles lets him have a brief moment of privacy. Anticipation makes his desire all the more visceral. Lounging on a large, curved, white leather sofa with a glass of indecently expensive whiskey in one hand, Charles leisurely kneads the bulge in his trousers with the other; the fine fabric adds a delicious tactile sensation to the pleasure.

Sherlock looks back, but Charles doesn’t stop. A lopsided smile broadens on his face as Sherlock’s gaze quickly darts away. The poor thing is still so easily embarrassed.

“Sometimes I wish you were not so pale, dear,” Charles croons, amused. “You would blush so prettily.”

On the other hand, Sherlock’s perfect as he is. A study in white and black. Besides, bruises, hickeys, and other marks look so sensual on pale skin. The tender rose pink pucker between Sherlock’s buttocks quickly turns angry red from good use. Looking at it is an exquisite delight. Knowing that no one else has ever touched it is more than just information.

Sherlock had clearly had difficulties sitting still during dinner this evening; no wonder, after what his little arse had been through this morning. The sight of him fidgeting in place had given Charles an absolutely inappropriate hard-on.

Now it’s time to do something about it.

“Come here,” Charles calls out, and throws a pillow to the floor so that Sherlock can settle between his feet. “Let’s have a nice evening chat.”

Sherlock, snapped out of his reverie, obeys more or less promptly, albeit reluctantly. He’s trained too well by now. He knows better than to spoil Charles’ good mood.

“It seems you’ve taken an interest in the Watson family,” Charles mentions casually. “That ex-military doctor is a funny little man, though his wife is certainly more interesting, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, eyes fixed on the floor, and Charles continues, threading a hand through Sherlock’s thick, silky curls: “Oh yes, she’s definitely a person of interest, especially since she’s gone freelance. I wonder if John knows her little professional secrets,” he adds dreamily. Maybe he doesn’t. If so, that could be quite entertaining.

Charles takes a small sip of his whiskey and continues ruffling Sherlock’s hair: “Now, what was I talking about? Mmm, ah yes. You spent too much time with Dr. Watson and paid little attention to the other guests, I’m afraid. No doubt, you enjoyed basking in his attention. I overheard him exclaiming “brilliant” and “amazing”, which was flattering of course, but hardly an excuse to forget that other people were present at the party too. What did you impress him with? Were you making your little deductions again?”

“I was right about him,” Sherlock mutters all of a sudden. “I only got it wrong about his sister, but…”

Charles’ grip in Sherlock hair tightens painfully; it makes Sherlock gasp and shut up.

“I’m not finished,” Charles reminds him suavely. “Pray let me continue, my dear. I’m sure you could have been a great detective if things had gone another way. I appreciate your ability to deduce the dirty secrets that everyone has in abundance. But I also appreciate you complying with my requests and discussing these secrets only with me, and only if they are relevant to my line of work. You are certainly not meant to show off before a man you hardly know just because he finds it amusing. And that’s instead of mingling with other guests. I’m very, very disappointed.”

Sherlock cringes at this word because it doesn’t bode well. Charles trails a finger along his cheekbone and traces the outline of his chin. Sherlock’s skin is smooth, cleanly shaven. He’s equally smooth down there, in his pants. The thought of it is nice.

“Perhaps it’s my fault, dear,” Charles purrs, caressing Sherlock’s plump lower lip. “I should pay more attention to your behaviour and correct you at once when needed. Perhaps I should have had you escorted away during the party. I certainly intend to do so if you fail me next time. Maybe I won’t even be so discreet as to close the doors to my study while your transgressions are being corrected. If someone walks in and sees you with your pants down, it will be your own fault.”

Sherlock’s face is contorted with mortification, and again Charles wishes he could see him blush.

He turns away for a moment to set his emptied glass aside and then spreads his legs a little wider. “I see you regret your misdeed, Sherlock. That’s a start. Now you need to show me just how much you do.” He takes Sherlock’s hand by the wrist, almost gently, and guides it to his crotch. Sherlock knows what he’s expected to do. Not that he enjoys it very much, but Charles hopes to make a good slut out of him yet.

***

Later at night, when Charles is lightly snoring, sated, in their enormous bed, Sherlock quietly moves as far away from him as he can and curls in on himself, sleepless. He finally has some time on his own. Time to dream of improbable things. In the darkness, he imagines another life for himself, a life full of adventure and excitement, somewhere in London. He could become anything he wanted. A detective, perhaps? In these dreams, the image of John Watson haunts him, and Sherlock gives in to the temptation of imagining that they could become friends and maybe even live together. Not as lovers, no. Sex is something Sherlock would rather not think of right now. But John wouldn’t be married either. There’d be no one else between them.

Of course it’s not meant to happen. There’s no way he’ll ever be free, unless Magnussen dies, and he’s not likely to do so very soon, not of his own accord. If Sherlock helps him with that, he’ll only have a brief moment of freedom. But Sherlock indulges in dreams anyway. However improbable his fantasies may be, they’re the only thing he can hold on to.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a sequel to this story - [Bottled up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5441720)


End file.
